


Interlude

by TheWildWoods



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Internal Monologue, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Realization, Violins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28675164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWildWoods/pseuds/TheWildWoods
Summary: In which John reflects upon where he's been, and where he's going.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> This is me trying to get back into writing fanfic. I'm a big fan of fics that use a more reflective tone, and focus on the quality of the prose, so I'm going to be trying to emulate that more in my writing. Enjoy!

John H. Watson was not easily broken. After languishing in an alcohol-soaked childhood, he emerged with a talent for football, a passion for healing the broken people of the world, and a scholarship to uni. After the death of his mother, he promised himself that he would embody her values and ideas of a perfect son - to honour her, make her proud. After the loss of Harry to the vice which had haunted their father, he vowed to never touch a drop of alcohol in moments of pain or sadness. But after the blood-soaked haze of sand and heat and guns in Afghanistan, John began to doubt the infallibility of that resilient part of himself, the one could take everything life had to throw at him and then a little more. 

The moans of dying men he could not save, the ubiquitous hail of gunfire, his own shouts when that bullet ripped its way through muscle and flesh and lodged itself in his shoulder - all these sounds chased him through his waking hours and followed him into his dreams. Sweat, trembling limbs, twisted bedsheets, and tear-swollen eyes were his bedfellows; for better or for worse it seemed to him that they were there to stay.

Then a mad genius rushed into his life like a gust of fresh air and changed everything. Suddenly he was swept up in Sherlock’s presence, his grandeur. Suddenly he was breathless from a wild chase beside a good friend instead of from nightmares; suddenly the grey tinge London had acquired since his return rolled back, and the joyous colours of vitality and meaning and friendship were once more present in his life. 

John didn’t know what this feeling burning inside him when he was around Sherlock meant for him, for them; all he did know was that he wanted to be as close as possible to this mad, brilliant man. He had danced around the topic before, flirted with it as he flirted with Sherlock, just to test the waters, you see? John wasn’t quite sure how to interpret the results he was given - it had been years since “married to my work,” yet he still didn’t quite know how much had changed for Sherlock.

After a particularly ignominious, but not undeserved, row and subsequent breakup with one girlfriend too many, John gave up the façade of an eligible ladies’ man. It was fun and a boost to his much abused ego to have someone fawning over him, and it was otherwise nice to have a warm and caring relationship with someone who actually appeared to give a damn about his opinion. 

But. Well. That was really it. John had enjoyed dating before–well, everything, but it had really just lost its appeal. After Afghanistan, his honourable discharge, Sherlock. At first, he was just focused on recovery and acclimatising to civilian life. Even after settling back into life in England, getting back to his old habits with Sarah and Jeanine and all the rest, he began to realise that something in his priorities had shifted. It had to do with Sherlock, of course it did - he demanded attention, and of course he would get it even in John’s private dating life.

One rainy Wednesday in late November, he realised what that was. 

A soft but constant rain fell outside the window, casting the skyline in a muted, hazy grey. The red drapes were haphazardly drawn halfway shut, causing only a thin rectangle of the soft rain-filtered light to fall on the floor. 

Inside 221b, dampened noises matched the muted day. John reclined in his overstuffed armchair, contentedly reading a review article in _The Lancet_ about spinal cord injuries, his face and extremities warmed by the coals burning in the fireplace. Across the room, Sherlock drew a freshly-rosined bow across his strings - _adagio, piano, legato_ \- and a fine dusting of white powder drifted from the contact point onto his dressing gown. 

John soon found himself to be utterly neglecting his journal, letting it droop down towards his lap as his attention wandered across the room. Somewhere, far back in the dimly lit recesses of his consciousness, he knew it had been a pretence for watching Sherlock anyways. 

Though he did not think it in as many words, John considered times like these, with Sherlock and him lost in their music for two, to exist outside the constraints of their normal life. It was fragile, beautiful, ephemeral. It was gossamer spider silk fluttering upon a flurry of wind, a warm ship’s cabin atop a churning sea, the ringing silence contained within the eye of a roaring hurricane. 

Filaments of music, near tangible in their effects, were drawn into the fire-warmed air of the living room from Sherlock’s bow. Though John knew him to be partial to the frenzied and wild Paganini caprices, tonight Sherlock chose a series of sweet, melodious sonatas. Perhaps he too sensed their perfectly balanced coexistence, and did his own part in preserving it by drawing a curtain around them with his music. 

Realising that in his musings he had put breathing on hold, John drew in a shaky breath. 

Sherlock’s eyes had fluttered shut in concentration, allowing John the chance to stare unabashedly at him. Fingers of firelight caressed Sherlock’s face, casting the alabaster skin in warm, shifting tones. Glinting off his dark mass of curls like a crown of ruddy gems too was the firelight. His face was smooth, unadorned with the characteristic crinkles resulting from the adrenaline and high emotions that John knew to so often plague him. In his face now, John saw only peace and contentment.

The music swelled, both in pitch and in volume, until it reached the peak of its final crescendo and dwindled away into a sparkling finale. Slowly, as if floating down through water, Sherlock lowered his bow arm to rest beside him and opened his eyes. They were limpid and acuitous, sparkling with life and with the pleasure produced by music.

John held his gaze for a heartbeat, pulse thudding traitorously in his ears, then shifting it to the violin grasped by Sherlock’s slender left hand. The juxtaposition of dark wood against pale skin was pleasing to see, and John allowed himself a moment to enjoy it. 

“That was lovely,” he murmured. “Tchaikovsky?”

Sherlock smiled, obviously pleased. “Ah, excellent. You’ve improved.” 

He deftly loosened his bow, fingers swiftly turning the screw, before turning around to set the bow and violin in their case. His robe clung to his backside as he bent, and flickering tongues of flames licked up his side. John’s mouth grew dry, as if stuffed with cotton. 

Well then. 

This will make things interesting.


End file.
